


Late Night Club Soda

by WaferBiscuits



Category: Lupin III
Genre: F/F, Flirting, Lupin & Jigen are talked about but not present, Pet Names, Reader-Insert, She/her pronouns for reader, Short One Shot, Walk Into A Bar, femme reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaferBiscuits/pseuds/WaferBiscuits
Summary: You work at a bar that sees little to no foot traffic, especially on a Tuesday. It's a good night to get flirted with by a femme fatale.
Relationships: Mine Fujiko/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Late Night Club Soda

It’s a late Tuesday night. You’re not getting much traffic today apart from your usual batch of sad-looking regulars. 

You work at the Amber Jewel, an establishment that thirty years ago might have been something respectable. Nowadays, or at least in the time you’ve been there, it carries the same depressing energy as a decades old casino with frayed carpeting. It smells like sour coins.

Still, work is work, and you kind of like the low-key atmosphere of the place. There’s no loud music, just whatever jazz playlist your boss can get running on the speaker system from the Spotify app on his phone. Dim intimate lighting bounces off of thick wooden tables that have lost their varnish years ago.

The bar is where you work, and it’s a job that you’d enjoy doing if you were given a bit more challenge that could help you flex your certified bartending muscles. Most of the people who come in here just want a Miller from the cooler, not even from the tap. Just the bottle. You can’t remember the last time you’ve had an opportunity to mix a drink let alone cut the froth from a glass.

At least the tips are nice. Granted, nine times out of ten you only get them from older men who pass over money as a clumsy attempt to garner the attention of the only woman in the building (you). You’ve become an expert in taking bills and doling out plastic platitudes to maximize your gains. 

Anyway, it’s a Tuesday night. Your boss isn’t even in today, so it’s all on your shoulders to keep the place running. It’s not difficult. You only get, at most, two customers at a time, and since your boss isn’t leering over your shoulder you can spend as much time as you’d like scrolling through your phone.

The door opens. You instinctively straighten up to dip your phone back into your slacks pocket.

You’re surprised. The person who walks in isn’t one of your crusty regulars, but a woman, and one of a modest age you couldn’t begin to guess. Thirty? Forty? It doesn’t matter. The wind that blows in from the door catches her ginger hair, and your breath hitches at the smell of her perfume. Chanel. How traditional.

She looks at you and smiles. Her lips are full, her eyes half-lidded in a way that makes her look both relaxed and confident. Her low-cut button-up leaves nothing to your imagination. You didn’t think it’d be possible for denim to get that tight.

“Hey there.” Her voice is like warm milk. She walks towards the bar and slides onto one of the stools. The metal backing creaks under her weight. “Looks a little dead here, huh?”

Your throat feels dry.

She props her elbows on the bar table and rests her chin on her hands. You can’t help but glance down and see how her breasts seem to press into her arms. They’re large enough to actually rest on the table.

Somehow you manage to dig up the words you ask everyone who comes in, but it comes out in a stuttering mess. You feel your cheeks burn as you ask her what she’d like this evening.

Bless her heart, she doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she’s looking at your even more fondly. Her smile is lazy. “A club soda would be a treat. No ice.”

You feel yourself nod in a dumb, bobbing way and grab for a glass. There’s a tap next to the sink that dispenses seltzer.

The woman leans forward and watches the soda pour. “You’d be doing me a service to sneak in a little lime slice with it too, sweetie,” she says. She drawls out each word, soft and smooth.

You pluck the best looking of the withered lime slices from one of the Tupperware boxes and dip it in the glass. Fishing out a coaster, you slide the drink towards her.

“Thanks, honeybee.” She takes the drink and sips at it in a way that won’t let her lip gloss smear on the rim. You didn’t think that was even possible.

Swallowing, you try to get yourself to relax. You feel sweaty, and it gets worse when you see the woman looking at you right in eye.

“You have an honest face,” she says, smiling lightly. “Not like mine at all. I’m Fujiko Mine. It’s up to you if you want to think that’s the truth or not.”

The name is familiar, but at the moment you can’t seem to place it. It’s only then you realize that you and her are the only people left in the bar. The only other customer must have left minutes ago.

Fujiko rests a hand on the bar table. “Care to hear a lonely old hag’s wailing for a minute or so?” she asks. “Play the trope of a listening barkeep?”

You nod, but you can’t stop looking at her hand. Her nails are long, but not too long. They’re painted in a simple black and silver. French tips.

She notices you looking and grins. “It’s alright, I won’t bite if you want to take it.” She wiggles her fingers and curls one in a playful ‘come hither’ gesture.

It’s an absurdly bold move for someone you’ve known for all of five minutes. Then again, you remember that your boss isn’t in tonight, and it’s not like there’s any patrons to goggle at you.

Taking a breath, you reach and take her hand. She takes it and slowly threads your fingers with hers. Her skin is soft and has a silky feel. You can’t remember the last time you’ve held someone’s hand, and you feel a rush of touch-starved agony that nearly drowns you whole.

“There we go,” she coos, her voice a whisper. “Just let go if you want, okay?”

You nod, unable to meet her eyes.

She clicks her tongue. “Say it with your mouth, sweet pea.”

Somehow you manage to squeak a ‘yes’.

Fujiko rubs her thumb in little circles over the back of your hand. The tip of her nail presses into your skin. “So, story time. I work under the table, so to speak.”

You listen.

“I work with a couple of guys. They’re good men. I’ve known them for, gosh, at least fifteen years now. Probably more, but you didn’t hear that from me. Can’t let you know my age, now can I?” She laughs.

You almost say something embarrassing like “no, ma’am” but you manage to stop yourself. You try to focus on the touch, and after the initial awkwardness of it you find your tension slowly start to uncoil.

“One of them, hm, let’s call him ‘Wolf’.” Fujiko pauses to snicker under breath, like she’s told a joke that only she can understand. “He’s absolutely wild about people. The man would fuck a cactus if it said yes – know what I mean? He’s the kind of person who lives for being the center of someone’s attention and giving it right back at them.”

She idly squeezes your hand in a steady rhythm, like she’s keeping time.

You relax into it, focus on her voice, and feel confident enough to look her in the eye.

Fujiko’s smile warms. She blinks slowly. “Aren’t you sweet?” she murmurs. “You know, a little eyeliner and a little blush dusting would make you even cuter. It’d be fine if you didn’t, too. You’re a dish even with the natural look. I’m almost jealous.”

The praise makes you feel dizzy and you can feel the tips of your ears heating up.

She continues. “So there’s Wolf, and then there’s his right-hand man. We’ll just call him Daisuke, and I don’t think you’d be able to find a sadder curmudgeon than that guy. He’s the most stereotypical old gay I’ve ever seen. Poor bastard is head over heels for Wolf in a bad way and Wolf’s too much of a sex pest to understand that Daisuke’s all about monogamy. It’s sad, really, and it’s awkward for me since Wolf’s had an eye for me ever since we met.”

You cringe in sympathy.

Fujiko shrugs. “There’s a reason why people say you shouldn’t go after coworkers, right? But Wolf thinks he’s all above that and goes after me anyway, and Daisuke just hates me for it. Truly. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t accept Wolf’s advances from time to time.” She admits this with chirpy laugh, clearly unashamed.

“But that’s the long and short of why I’m here. Some nights I just have to get away from the drama and the love triangle nonsense. It gets a little exhausting after the first few years, let alone the first decade. So I step away for a few days, walk around, find little holes in the wall like this, and chat up the cutest of the bunch.”

She sits up then, and fixes her eyes on you with a sudden intensity that makes you finch in surprise. “Thanks for listening, really,” she says, then grins. “If you want, I’ll give you a kiss as a thank you for listening. No strings attached.”

You think for a moment, then nod.

Fujiko stand and leans over the bar table. She’s still holding your hand. She squeezes it tight as she reaches to cup your cheek. The tip of her nose brushes against your own as she whispers “you sure, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you plead, “yes, please.”

When she kisses you, you can’t think. She’s good at it. Her lips press against yours and linger there, suckling lightly. She’s humming as she does it, and the vibrations make your face tingle in a way that makes it so that you can’t even think straight.

She strokes your cheek and threads her fingers through your hair. Taking hold of your ear, she strokes the shell like something small and precious.

You’re panting when she pulls away, and seeing her look at you with swollen lips and flushed cheeks makes you see stars.

“How about another club soda, dear?” she asks. “Listen to me more and I’ll let you have another, if you’d like.”

You scramble for a fresh glass.

**Author's Note:**

> Been wanting to do a Fujiko/FemmeReader fic for a lonngggg time. This is also my first /Reader fic. Comments and Kudos are always held tight and dear.


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